


Fields of Gold

by ghostofgatsby



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Business, Domesticity, Friendship, Gen, Non-Sexual Intimacy, farming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-11-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:48:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5284355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofgatsby/pseuds/ghostofgatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the market crashes, Hat Corp falls with it. The three men shut down their business, sell their offices, and move out into the countryside. Looking to start their lives anew, they invest in a farm in the middle of nowhere and start to remake what they’ve lost.</p>
<p>Or, put simply, the three Hat lads buy a wheat farm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fields of Gold

**Author's Note:**

> Farm Lads!  
> self-indulgent fic because I thought the premise was interesting.
> 
> Friendship, Domesticity, Farming, Business, Non-Sexual Intimacy  
> cw: cursing as is common for Hatfilms. that should be it, but let me know if there’s anything else.
> 
> I know nothing about farming, but the countryside _is_ pretty. There’s nothing like sunsets over fields, endless bright blue sky stretching into the horizon, sunny cloudless days of summer.  
>  Some people hate the country, and some people hate the city. I’m a kid who grew up in the suburbs, a kid of neighborhoods, and mid-sized places. I appreciate beauty wherever I see it, but that’s not entirely because of where I grew up. There’s beauty everywhere, not just country or city or suburb. Just have to know where to look, I guess.
> 
> want to reblog?: https://ghostofgatsby13.wordpress.com/2015/11/25/fields-of-gold-ghostofgatsby/

The tractor engine cuts off with the grinding of gears, and Smith stretches back in the seat with a groan. He’s been tilling the soil all morning. It was probably past noon at this point- the sun is high in the sky and the air is hot and humid. His t-shirt sticks to his back with sweat.

Time for a break.

Smith brushes his hair out of his eyes and puts his keys into the pocket of his washed out jeans. His boots scuff the dirt as he dismounts the tractor and walks towards the large tree on the far side of their property. Up ahead is the farmhouse, white and grey, in stark contrast to the blue skies and the dirt brown fields.

Smith flops down in the grass beneath the tree with a relieved sigh. He takes his hat off his head and runs his fingers through his sweaty hair. There’s no breeze today, but the shade provided by the tree is enough for now. Cloudless blue skies are visible between the leaves when he looks up.

The thunk--thunk--thunk sound of hammer hitting nail makes Smith look for Ross. He catches a glimpse of dark hair just over the top of the farmhouse roof. Ross has been nailing down new shingles while Smith was tilling.

Fuck, it was hard work keeping up a farm. Long, hot, and dusty days out in the fields wore them all out. Smith lays back in the cool grass with one arm behind his head and his other on the brim of his hat beside him. He sighs and closes his eyes, just to rest them for a moment.

 

When Ross and Smith arrive at work one cold morning in February, the office is in panic. People are shouting down phones, the copiers and printers are going non-stop, and everyone’s running around like a chicken with their head cut off.

They push through the throng of people and into their office. Trott is hunched over his desk with his head in his hands, and he doesn’t even look up when Smith and Ross walk in.

“Trott? What’s going on?” Smith asks. He shares a look with Ross as they walk up to him.

Their office is eerily quiet. All the sounds from the chaos outside are muffled.

“I take it you didn’t hear the news.” Trott mutters.

Ross swallows thickly. “What news, Trott.” His blood runs cold as Trott raises his head and looks his business partners, his friends and confidants, in the eye. His eyes are cold and tired, red-rimmed and strained.

Trott hands them today’s paper. The stock numbers on the front page are emblazoned across the top.

Ross looks in shock at the headline in bold print. “It- it can’t have...” He stammers. “Don’t tell me it’s all...”

Smith pulls the paper out of his hands, and takes one look at it before throwing it to the ground.

“Fucking- we can’t have lost it all. There has to be some mistake. Don’t tell me our business is-” Smith runs his hand through his hair, pacing the room and shaking his head fervently. “Trott, fucking tell me this is a joke. This can’t happen to us like this! Everything we put in...”

Trott shakes his head at the bills and letters in front of him. "We've lost everything." He admits sorrowfully. “We’re in the red. The madness outside is everyone trying to scramble together something, but it’s gone. It’s all gone.”

“There’s...there’s got to be something, Trott.” Ross says to the crumpled newspaper on the ground. The numbers give him no hope. They hold no fortune.

“I’ve looked. I’ve tried. I’ve spent hours pouring over everything, looking for some way out.” Trott sighs as he turns away from his ledgers and papers. “There’s nothing. There’s nothing left.”

Over the next few days, they watch their workers pack up their few belongings and leave the building. The movers come and they sell all the office cubbies and desks that they bought when they started their business.

On their final day, they spend the remaining work hours moving out their own office. They remove their degrees from the walls, the files from their desks, and their mugs from the break room. They pack their cars with the last of their things and take the H.A.T. Enterprises sign off the door.

As the day turns to dusk, they take one last look around their empty office.

They had it all once, and now, only emptiness remained.

Smith holds open the door as they file out one by one. Ross turns out the lights. Trott locks the door behind them, and they walk outside into the frigid winter night.

 

The sound of footsteps in the grass wakes Smith from his doze.

"Hey there, Sleeping Beauty." Trott stands before him, smiling slightly. He takes his suit jacket off from over his shoulder and tosses it in the grass next to Smith.

“Hey Trott.” Smith greets back. He sits up, rubbing sleep from his tired eyes. “How'd the meeting go?”

“About as expected.” Trott’s tone is dismissive. Smith wants to pry, but he knows Trott will talk when he wants to if he gives him his space. And there’s certainly no lack of space, out in the country.

Trott rolls up his shirtsleeves and sits down beside him with a low groan. He brushes his bangs out of his eyes and stares out into the fields, shaking his head.

"You know, I've dreamt of fields of gold, but this wasn't what I had in mind."

Smith chuckles sadly and brushes a bit of grass off his shirt sleeve. “I never thought I’d be a farm-boy, but here I am, driving tractors all day.”

Trott hums in agreement. The lines in his face betray his irritation.

Smith knows Trott was the one who adjusted the least when they moved out into the country. He put everything into their business, more so than Smith and Ross. Business was all he knew. It was in his blood, and farm life wasn't something he could easily get used to. It was why he handled the money, and the sales of their crop. Most days he still wore suits and met with potential clients.

After nearly a year of farming, wearings suits again felt for Smith like he was dressing up in his father’s clothes. It was a strange dichotomy- tanned, dirt-smudged skin with crisp suits and ties. The year’s worth of farming experience made him feel less like a city-slicker and more like a country bumpkin.

"Ross still fixing the roof?" Trott asks, hearing the hammering and a muttered curse as Ross catches his thumb.

"Yeah. I think he's been up there for most of the day." Ross was in charge of all the repairs around the farm. They’d gotten this place cheap, considering, and a lot of repairs had been done over the past year to make it more of a livable home.

"Break time, then. I'll get the lemonade.” Trott stands and dusts himself off. “Beckon him down for some lunch, will you?" He asks.

Smith nods.

Trott picks up his coat and Smith watches as he makes his way back to the house.

With another sigh and a small smile, Smith stands and goes to fetch Ross.

The farmhouse is a two story, two bedroom, one and a half bath home. Rather small, considering all three of them live there, but it had a wraparound porch and large windows. It was enough, and regardless, it was all they could afford.

Their plot of land is roughly five acres. One acre includes the house and a shed, and the other four are wheat fields with a barn on the Western side. A dirt road loops the property from the barn to the main road, dividing their fields from their neighbors on one side.

The Southern end of the lot is lined with trees along the main road. The gravel driveway leading from it ends two hundred feet from the house, with a car corral where Trott parks his car. His car was the only one they kept, because it was in the best shape when they lost the business. They sold the others to pay for farming equipment. Goodbye BMW, Hello John Deere.

Smith walks around to the front of the house. He shields his eyes with his hand and looks up at Ross. His friend has his back turned, with his shirt riding up, and a tool pouch slung around his waist.

"Ross, mate!" Smith calls up.

"Yeah?" Ross shifts up on the shingles, looks down towards Smith.

"Lunch!"

Ross nods in understanding, tossing a handful of nails into the box beside him. He hooks his hammer into his belt and maneuvers his way towards the edge of the roof.

Smith holds the ladder as Ross climbs down, listening to his boots clang against the metal rungs until he steps onto solid ground.

Ross lets out a huff of breath and wipes the sweat off his face with his shirt.

"Hot one, innit?" He says to Smith with a weary smile. "You finish tilling?"

Smith smiles back. "Yeah, mate. Have the smaller field to do before dinner, but that's less of a hassle than the most of it."

"True." Ross scratches at the stubble on his face as he follows Smith into the house. The screen door slaps against the molding with a loud thwack as they go inside and stomp the dirt from their boots. They both sigh at the crisp feeling of air conditioning. They were always thankful they had enough funds to splurge on that.

"Hey Trott." Ross greets the third of their trio as they enter the kitchen.

Trott offers the two of them tall glasses of lemonade and gestures at a plate of sandwiches on the island counter. "Chow down, boys."

Smith and Ross take a seat on the barstools, both feeling sore and weary now that they're out of the heat.

Trott pours himself a glass of lemonade from the large pitcher he'd stirred it in, and takes a drink.

"How's the work on the roof coming?" He asks Ross.

"I've got a couple of patches to do on the left side. Should be done within the week.”

“Good.”

Smith takes a bite of his sandwich. “Any news on the silo we need built?" He asks.

Trott sighs and taps his fingers against his glass. "I went around and talked to our neighbors about it. Fucking Jenkins to the left of us doesn't want it next to his property. Garrison said he'd be fine with a silo, but only if we fix his fence."

"His goats have ruined the fuck out of that fence, why should we have to pay for it?" Smith scoffs around a mouthful of sandwich. "Besides, a silo all the way on the North side of the property? That's nowhere near the barn, how is that practical?"

"I know."

"What about Jones? What'd he think?" Ross asks, licking his lips and taking another bite of his sandwich.

"Jones is fine- it's his wife that's the problem."

Smith and Ross groan.

“Why does she have a say? It’s just a fucking silo!”

Trott shrugs.

"Fucking farmers. They're worse than the IRS, sometimes, I swear." Ross mutters. "Everybody's got a grudge, or a bone to pick."

"Could be worse, I suppose.” Smith says, brushing crumbs out of his beard. “At least we don't have the Hatfields and the McCoys surrounding our property."

Trott laughs a second later. "Mate. Hat Fields."

"For fuck's sake." Smith laughs, and Ross joins in, grinning.

Stress eases from their frames as they enjoy each others' company.

 

The sound of the wind chime on the porch is boisterous in the approaching evening. The sky is gray and darkening quickly. The feeling in the air is too quiet- it’s the sound of an approaching storm.

Trott steps out onto the back porch, dressed-down in just a button down shirt and tan pants tucked into his boots. He'd stayed inside for the rest of the day, and hadn't seen hide nor tail of Smith and Ross.

He stares out into the setting sky, looking for Smith in the fields. He can’t see very far from the house. Smith could be on the other side of the property, for all he knew.

Ross comes around the side of the porch, carrying the ladder and his toolbox.

"Looks like a storm’s coming." He says to Trott as he heads towards the small tool-shed nearby.

"Radio said we're supposed to get quite a bit of rain headed our way.” Trott replies, stepping down off the porch and following Ross across the yard. “You seen Smith?"

"Nah. He's probably in the smaller field, or the barn." He hefts the toolbox in his grip. "Let me put this away and then we'll go fetch him."

 

Ross and Trott follow the dirt path to the barn on the Western end of their property. The wind has started picking up even further, kicking up dust from the field, and whipping their hair into their eyes.

"Smith?" Trott calls out, creeping into the barn with Ross on his heels.

The brim of a hat peeks out of the frame of the tractor. They walk around the side, listening to the tick of the engine, recently turned off and still warm.

Smith's leaning against the frame, sleeping.

"Smith, you pillock." Trott smacks his arm and Smith stutters awake.

"Wh- huh?"

Trott tugs at his shirt sleeve. "You can sleep in the house, sunshine, come on. There’s a storm headed our way."

"Did you get the smaller field done?" Ross asks Smith.

"Yeah, yeah." Smith dismounts the tractor and follows Ross and Trott out, locking the barn door shut behind him. The skies have darkened quickly, grey with big cloud masses rolling across it. The light is dim, and the eeriness makes Smith take a breath.

"Guess we really are gonna get some rain, huh." He mumbles.

“Trott said that’s what they’re calling for.” Ross replies.

Trott sighs and herds them down the path.

They get back to the house just as it starts to pour. Rain thunders into the roof with the force of a dozen wild horses.

"Shame it couldn’t wait a few days. It'll be good for the fields, but now the roof-work has to be delayed." Ross grumbles as he unlaces his boots at the door.

Smith and Trott follow suit, shaking rain-drops from their skin. The rain beats on steadily.

 

As the radio crackles from the kitchen, spewing soft jazz music out the speakers, Smith washes down his arms and legs. In the washroom by the back door is a basin, big enough to stand in with a spout protruding from the wall.

Smith scrubs most of the dirt and grime from his skin with the water that spews from the tap. Above him, the rain pounds the roof, and thunder shakes the ceiling beams. Smith cups his hands in front of the spout and catches water to wash his face off with.

He needs a shave soon- his beard is getting a bit too scraggly for his liking. He’ll probably take a shower once the storm rolls over, but hopefully not too late in the evening. The days were long and started early when you were a farmer.

When Smith’s done, he dries off, dresses in clean clothes, and pads into the kitchen.

Ross is chopping vegetables at the counter, humming quietly to himself. Unlike Smith, he had washed his hair in the basin, and it'd lost the spiky quality it had earlier. Now it was fluffy and curling a little around his ears.

Why Ross still bothers to style his hair with gel nowadays, Smith doesn't know. It takes too much time to style hair, and it just gets sweaty anyways. Smith looks more like a farmer than Ross does, some days. If you overlook Ross’ matching farmer’s tan and his construction-built arm muscles.

Smith steals a piece of raw carrot from Ross' cutting board and strolls over to Trott in the living room. The smaller of the three is sitting on the end of the couch, by the one lamp on the side table. He’s either balancing his checkbook, or figuring out the cost of future projects, Smith can’t tell. Trott’s pen is scratching numbers in the margins of his notes, while his other hand taps the calculator in his lap.

Smith munches on his carrot and watches Trott work with his back bent over the coffee table. He rolls his eyes, pops the remainder of the carrot into his mouth, and walks over.

"Trott, mate, you're gonna be sore if you keep sitting like that." He says, walking around the back of the couch. He places his hands on Trott's shoulders and gently pulls him backwards until he’s flush with the sofa.

"I've got to get this done, Smith." Trott tuts, shrugging out of Smith's hands and resuming his work.

"Can't it wait?" Smith tries again, and Trott squirms.

"Smith..."

"Leave it for after dinner. It's not going to hurt if you don't do it immediately." Smith soothes, pulling Trott back by his shoulders again.

Trott huffs in annoyance, but lets him.

Smith hides his smile and rubs along Trott's shoulder blades. There's a mass of tension along Trott's neck and shoulders, and he tries to relieve that the best he can. He rubs in small concentric circles, digging his thumbs gently into the knots.

Trott slowly lets out a quiet sigh and relaxes.

The jazz on the radio fills the house with the sounds of bright trumpets and soft crooning voices. It’s stark in contrast to the storm outside. The smell of seared steaks and roasted vegetables wafts through the air, and Smith’s stomach growls hungrily.

"Ought to buy a crock pot." Trott murmurs as Smith continues to knead his shoulders. “Then Ross can make pot roast, chili, and stew more often...”

Smith hums and shifts his hands a little lower, using his thumbs to rub in-between Trott's shoulder blades.

It’s a random comment, Trott talking about cookery, but he understands. Less time cooking means more time working. Smith likes this, though, spending time with his friends at the end of a long day.

He knows Ross _likes_ to do the cooking, too. He’s a meat-and-potatoes guy, and even after being up on the roof for most of the day he’ll slave over a stove for a good meal. Sure, they could get a crock pot, which would mean Ross could make pot roast and the like with less hassle, but Smith likes things how they are. Pot roast or no, it’s not about the effort, it’s about the time they spend together.

Maybe they’ll get a crock pot in the winter. Persuade Ross to make goulash more often.

Smith digs his thumbs in a little harder to Trott’s back. Trott's head droops and he makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat.

Smith chuckles at the noise, and Trott flips him off over his shoulder.

 

Dinner is spent watching the storm outside the window. Lightning flashes in the distance, illuminating the dark clouds as they roll across the sky. Eventually the thunder dies down, and the heavy rain reduces to a drizzle. After they’ve all showered, Trott finishes his work and joins the other two upstairs.

They all sleep in one large bed. It was a small two-bedroom farmhouse, after all, and twin beds couldn't fit Smith and Ross. Their spare room acted as an office, which held a rickety desk they bought at a flea market and their filing cabinets from the business.

Smith is already asleep when Trott enters the bedroom, but Ross is at the window, watching the rain.

"Not waiting up for me, are you?" Trott whispers with a wry smile.

Ross shrugs and moves from the window to turn off the light.

As Trott undresses with his back towards the bed, he hears Ross get in beside Smith and elbow the bearded man to get him to stop snoring.

The air in the house is considerably colder after the rain, and Trott briefly pads out into the hallway to turn down the air conditioning. When he re-enters the bedroom, he sees that Ross too was quick to fall asleep. Half his face is covered by the sheets, but he’s more visible than Smith is. Smith's hair is the only visible part of him over Ross' shoulder.

Trott takes the quilt off the end of their bed and drapes it across their ankles, in reach should they get cold in the night. He slips under the covers and curls towards the warmth of his friends with a quiet sigh.

Another morning would be soon to come, another day with work to be done.

Trott closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> http://retrodrive.tumblr.com/post/122901845638/casual-male-fashion-blog  
> Smith
> 
> http://generationstylefashion.tumblr.com/post/102856440041  
> Ross
> 
> http://retrodrive.tumblr.com/post/122368467235/casual-male-fashion-blog  
> http://generationstylefashion.tumblr.com/post/108239551366  
> Trott


End file.
